


one eight seven

by dottie_wan_kenobi



Series: sterek fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon-Typical Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski are Childhood Friends, Gen, Hale Family Feels, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Stiles Stilinski, Scott is a borderline bad friend, Scott is still 16, Season/Series 01, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski-centric, Stiles is 20 and Derek is 23, a lot of it is canon or can be blamed on him being a teen so like it's fine, stiles has hella friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi
Summary: It rings twice before a man is answering. “Hello?”“Is this Derek Hale?”There’s a beat of silence. “Yes. Who is this?”“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I don’t know if you remember me, but we knew each other as kids. I’m a Sheriff’s deputy now, you know, in Beacon Hills?” He doesn’t wait for Derek to reply. “Um, I’m calling you because, well, because we found a body last night in the Preserve, and we have reason to believe that it’s Laura. I’m so sorry to ask you to do this, but we need someone to positively ID her. I’m—we’re pretty sure it is her, but no one here has seen her in so long, we can’t be the ones to do it.”More silence. Then Derek inhales, shaky, and says, “I’m already in town. When do I need to come in?”s1 rewrite with Deputy Stiles and good ole childhood friends trope





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As per the notes, please be aware that the ages are like this: Derek is still 23. Scott is still 16. Stiles is 20. Most characters stay the same age, except Lydia is now 19 and Jackson and Danny are both 18. Heather and her friend Danielle are 20 as well.
> 
> This is my first big fic in this fandom so *crosses fingers* hope it goes okay lol. This first chapter is an interest check so I'm not sure when the rest will be coming out -- though when it does, it will be on a weekly schedule. Just gotta get more done first!!
> 
> Thank you to [ashleymoshow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashleymoshow), [whateverrrrwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever) (who made this so much better than it was gonna be), and [CaliHart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliHart) for betaing/listening to me ramble about this fic <333
> 
> Warning for lots of non-graphic description of a dead body

Once upon a time, Stiles had found the 187s exciting.

Yeah, back in those days, he was a stupid kid who watched a lot of crime dramas and lived in a happy little bubble of a small town with few deaths. People died of course, but rarely due to anything other than age or illness. Violent crimes back then were hit and runs, and drunks assaulting their spouses. When he heard about a 187, a _ murder_, it was like Christmas day but like…one in an Agatha Christie novel.

But now? Totally different story.

Pressing on the gas, he maneuvers the cruiser through the trees of the Preserve, brights on but not the sirens or lights. Even though it’s been a while since they were called out to this area, he knows the back roads well, probably more than all the others combined.

“Deputy Stilinski, you coming or not?” Sam asks over his radio, and Stiles can hear the smile in her voice plain as day. The various noises bugs make fill the background, and he winces to think how loud it’ll be when he gets to the scene.

“Yes, Sam, I’m coming,” he replies, rounding a gentle turn on the dirt path. “What, you miss me that much already?”

“No, actually, a few days of peace have made me realize how precious your company is. How preciously annoying, I mean.”

“Oh, ha ha,” he says, trying to sound upset but failing obviously. Playing around with the others always takes his mind off the bad shit. “Anyway, I’m almost there.”

“Good. Talk to you soon.” With that, she gets off the line, replaced by the faint chatter of whatever lucky assholes got to stay at the station tonight.

As far as he knows, there was a body found in the woods, about three miles from the old Hale house. Well, half of a body, found by late night joggers. He and most of the other deputies working tonight have been called in to search the rest of the Preserve for the other half.

Sometimes, Stiles kind of hates his job.

Well, okay, he loves it. He loves being a Deputy, loves helping people and the adrenaline rushes and everything. But this is the part that sucks, and it’s been a long day, and also he really doesn’t want to see a severed body, okay? 

When he gets to the scene and steps out, his dad is there with Sam and a few others. “Stiles, c’mere,” he says, gesturing over to where they’re all standing. The Medical Examiner is there too, waiting stiffly for the last of the police tape to be put up. Beyond them, Stiles can see the severed, naked bottom half of the victim. The amount of blood around the waist makes Stiles think the victim wasn’t killed in this location, and it probably didn’t happen all that recently. 

It makes him feel a little queasy and he looks to his dad whose face is grim and tired. He doesn’t like finding bodies any more than Stiles or the other deputies do, but he’s better at hiding it after two decades in law enforcement.

“Now that everyone’s here,” John says, “let’s get into what I need you all to do.”

Stiles listens close as he explains, setting them off in different directions with dogs and flashlights. “Let the dog lead you,” John says. “Follow them if they catch a scent, and if they find something like the upper half of the corpse, then it needs to be called in immediately.” 

He sweeps his eyes over all of them, making sure they’re all paying attention. Stiles nods like he used to in school to show he is, though no one else does.

“All units will then converge there, but all efforts need to go into preserving the scene. Once the entire Preserve has been searched, if the body still hasn’t turned up, then we can look into other options. We’re thinking that the other half is somewhere out here, though, probably at the site of the actual murder. You got it?”

It’s pretty much like every other search they’ve done, so everyone echoes, “Yes, sir.”

The K-9 Stiles gets is named Daisy, who takes her task of going East very well. He talks in a low voice to her, complaining about the bugs flying around his head and the flashlight. “I swear to god, it’s like I have a sign over my head saying ‘Tasty’ or something. You’re lucky you have fur, Daise, ‘cause I don’t and they all just want to bite me! And then they do! I’m gonna be itchy for a week!”

Daisy doesn’t reply except to go a little off the path, sniffing around at the ground. Stiles shines his flashlight on the spot she’s interested in, but doesn’t see anything. After a moment, she moves on, pulling him farther into the trees.

It’s weird to see how much they haven’t changed. The last time he’d ran around the Preserve after dark, he’d been maybe twelve years old. It’d been Adam Hale’s tenth birthday and Stiles had been invited to his sleepover. After dinner, everyone had spilled out into the yard to play while the adults cleaned up.

Stiles remembers, vaguely, that he’d wandered farther away from the group than he’d meant to. He’d seen a trail of footprints—wait, wouldn’t it be hoof prints? Yeah, hoof prints—from a deer and followed it, naively hoping he’d get to see it and maybe pet it. It was only once he’d lost sight of the house that he’d bothered to think about what getting lost meant. He had spooked himself enough that he’d tried to run back the way he came, imagining killers and demons lurking around in the dark alongside the mountain lions that are always in the news.

He’d slammed into Derek Hale, fifteen years old and evidently looking for him at the behest of the adults. 

Stiles tries to remember what had happened next, but the memory is fuzzy, much like the faces and voices of the Hales. He’d known them for years, had even been allowed to hold the two youngest in the hospital after their births, one of the Hale adults helping him. But it’s been six years now and few pictures remain. There is one still on the wall at home of Stiles with Adam, Rose, and Cora, who’d all been looking away from the camera, but that’s it.

And also, this is _ so _not what he should be focusing on.

Work. He’s at work. There’s a severed body. It’s not time to think about his old friends or the horrible, awful way most of them died.

“Sorry, girl,” Stiles says to Daisy, even though she doesn’t really care. She’s been leading them even deeper, well off the path, and Stiles steels himself. Her nose is good, and though it’s no guarantee they’ll be the one to find the body, he doesn’t want to be caught off guard. And clearly, she’s caught the scent of _ something_.

Eyes sweeping, he finds nothing but darkness, trees, and bugs who think it’s funny to dive bomb right into Stiles’ face, preferably his mouth and eyes.

It’s as he’s spitting out a fly—and eugh, full body shiver right there, he’s going to have to bleach his mouth or something now—that he sees a figure walking in the near distance.

He makes sure he and Daisy are quiet as they approach. It could be another deputy, though he doesn’t see a K-9, so he doubts it. It could also be the killer, walking around for some reason. Don’t they stay away from the crime scenes? Or do they stay and almost get caught, liking the thrill of a chase?

Stiles doesn’t want to chase anyone or anything tonight, or most nights really, so quiet it is.

The person thankfully doesn’t hear them over the noises of the bugs. They’re around Stiles’ height with just a little more weight on them, wearing a hoodie and jeans, sneakers. It’s too dark to see if their hair is black or dark brown, but it’s wavy and seems to go down to their ears or so. They’re turned away from him, so he can’t see their face. They’re walking peacefully, arms swinging gently, and if Stiles had to guess, he wouldn’t assume they’re someone who’s just committed such an egregious crime.

When he gets close, he risks calling out. “Hello?” The person jumps at his voice, and turns. Stiles shines his flashlight in their face without hesitation.

It’s a face he recognizes.

Jogging a little closer, he says, “Scott! What are you doing out here?”

Scott blinks as the light leaves his face, rubbing at one of his eyes. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, dipshit. What’re you doing? Don’t you have school in the morning?” Stiles is graduated and done with high school forever, thank god, but he’s still got friends going. Scott is one of them, Jackson and Danny being the others. They’ve been talking non-stop about lacrosse tryouts lately.

Scott groans at the reminder. “Yeah. That’s why I’m out here—I wanted to take a walk, clear my head, you know. The tryouts are tomorrow and I’m just so nervous. I thought it would help to get some fresh air.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll do great. But look, you can’t be out here right now.”

It’s then that Scott takes in Stiles’ work uniform, and Daisy at his side, sniffing the air suspiciously. “Oh shit. Did something happen? Like, something bad? You look serious. Is this serious business?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Stiles says, not about to divulge anything to him. As close as he and Scott are, Scott is still sixteen and incapable of keeping his mouth shut. If Stiles tells Scott, Scott will tell Isaac, and Isaac will tell his friends (if he even has any other than Scott, that is), and so on and so forth, and then everyone will know about the body before the station can give a statement. And when the leak gets tracked down, it’ll lead straight to Stiles. No thanks. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

They set off together, Daisy content to go in the direction of the parking lot for now, and Stiles listens while Scott talks. He tells Stiles he’s determined to get to first line this year, asthma be damned, and that he’s been practicing all summer.

It starts to rain lightly as they go, and Stiles hopes they’ve got the scene of the lower half of the body contained or at least well documented before the ground goes soft. The weather doesn’t help Scott much either, his breaths getting wheezier. “You got your inhaler with you?”

Scott nods, coming to a stop as he takes it out. His eyes go to the distance, and Stiles looks that way, too. Daisy tenses up, tugging backwards on her leash, and Stiles turns to her, trying to see what’s wrong. She’s a calm dog, with better focus than Stiles himself has even on his best days, and she’s been trained not to tug. The fact that she is concerns him.

“What’s wrong, girl?”

Scott’s just about to take a puff when a deep rumbling comes from a ways away. It catches both of their attentions as it grows louder and louder, the ground shaking under their feet. Sticks snap and leaves rustle, giving Stiles the interesting and unwanted image of a herd of elephants running a marathon. It’s not a herd of elephants, however, but a herd of deer. They come blazing by, knocking Stiles and Scott both off their feet with the force of their hooves hitting the ground. Daisy barks uproariously, straining to follow them, but Stiles holds tight even as he struggles to get up. He watches as they jump right over Scott, concern and fear tight in his throat. He shouts, flails, tries to get them to go a different way than _ directly over his friend_, but it doesn’t work.

The last one practically flies over Scott’s head, landing horrifically close. It takes only seconds to catch up with the rest, leaving them alone. Stiles hurries to Scott’s side, throat tight with panic. “Are you okay?” He demands. “Did they hurt you?”

Scott stands, shaking, and waves away the questions. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” but he’s rasping. Pulling out his phone, he says, “I dropped my—my inhaler, can you help me—”

Stiles nods, shining his flashlight on the ground. He and Scott look in opposite directions, straying farther apart than he’d like. He has to fight Daisy, which doesn’t feel like a good idea at all, but it’s more important to find Scott’s inhaler. If he loses it, it’ll cost to replace it, and Stiles knows neither of the McCalls can really afford to shell out right now.

“Fucking fuck,” Stiles says to the ground, which is stubbornly not revealing the white and blue plastic. Daisy whines, and he shushes her, promising to give her treats and pets as soon as he’s done looking.

Scott’s frightened shout pierces the air before he can promise cuddling, too. Stiles stands and whips around, rushing in Scott’s direction. There’s a steep slope, and Stiles is about to slide down it when two things happen: Scott starts screaming in pain from somewhere past the tree line, and Daisy starts barking her head off again and tugging him sideways.

Cursing his luck, heart pounding, Stiles yells, “Scott! Scotty! _ SCOTT!_”

Scott’s voice cuts off.

The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh, thoughts wildly crashing around in his head. Is Scott dead? Is Scott _ almost _ dead? Is this just some supremely fucked up prank that Stiles will be angry about for the rest of his life, but really, he’d be okay with because then at least _ Scott wouldn’t be dead_.

Instinct kicks in, telling him that if this is real, then he needs to behave like the fucking Sheriff’s deputy he is. He needs to go down there, find Scott, and get either an ambulance or the Medical Examiner.

Just as Stiles is about to slide down the embankment, he hears it: clear as day, a body crashing through the leaves. It’s headed right towards them.

It’s second nature to pull his service revolver out, ready for the worst. There shouldn’t be any other deputies out this way, and even if there were, they wouldn’t have done anything to Scott to make him scream. His gut says it’s probably the killer or a mountain lion, and no way is he taking his chances with either. 

What he gets instead is Scott, wheezing so hard it hurts Stiles just to hear it, pained tears falling down his cheeks. He scrambles up the slope, struggling through the mud. Stiles holsters his weapon and reaches down to help, grabbing his biceps and tugging until the kid is flat on the ground. Daisy is still going crazy, but Stiles ignores her. He has to see how Scott’s hurt, has to know if he needs to call an ambulance and get Scott to the nearest pathway so he can get help.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles pants, fingers tingling with pure anxiety. “Are you okay? What happened? What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Scott whines, wiping his face like he thinks Stiles is about to judge him for crying. Hell, he’s on the verge himself. He’s known Scott since they were kids, and for a few moments there, he’d been so certain Scott was dead. There’s a lot of relief and a bit of fear making his eyes wet right now, and he won’t be ashamed of it.

“Are you okay? Do I need to call for an ambulance?”

Scott shakes his head vehemently, sitting up. 

Stiles backs off about an inch, heart pounding so hard that it hurts. “What _ happened_?”

“I don’t know,” Scott repeats. “I just fell down there and I was getting up and then I saw this—this _ thing_, it looked like a monster, and it ran at me! And I think—I think it bit me.”

”It _ bit you_? Where? Show it to me.” 

Scott lifts his shirt, revealing the bite, huge and oozing blood but thankfully not too deep. Stiles’ eyes go wide at the size of it. He pulls out his phone and takes a picture, trying to get the best angle. “I have to call this in,” he says once he’s done.

“No! Stiles, please, don’t. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Scott…what if whatever bit you has rabies? You need to get to the hospital. I can’t just let this go.” There are so many reasons why, but listing them would just waste time, and Scott’s never been very patient anyway. Using his Deputy Voice is really all he has to try and get this through to the kid.

In return, he gets Scott’s big puppy dog eyes. “I can drive myself there. I’m fine. See? I’m fine.” 

Scott stands up, and though he looks a little shaky, he also isn’t bleeding too badly. And Stiles is still at work, still has a K-9 trying desperately to lead him in a different direction. And there’s still potentially a corpse out there, with the rain threatening to damage both it and the scene. Shit.

Feeling about ten thousand years old, Stiles sighs and rubs at his face. “Jesus, okay. You need to go straight to the hospital. _ Straight there_, you got me?”

Scott nods gratefully and doesn’t waste time, heading off in the direction of the parking lot. Stiles finally lets Daisy take him where she’s trying to go, a straight line along the drop off.

His eyes scan the tree line, trying to catch a glimpse of the thing that bit Scott—a monster in the Preserve? With a jaw that could leave a bite like that? There’s really only one option, and he desperately doesn’t want it to be true.

They’re walking for a little while before he sees it—the top half of the body.

“Fuck!” He pulls out his radio and calls it in, giving his location and keeping his distance, trying not to disturb any possible footprints or other evidence around the corpse.

The victim is white, probably female, naked. Her eyes are wide open, hazel. She’s wearing minimal amounts of makeup, and some lipstick or gloss is smeared on her cheek, along with a lot of blood all over. She’s severed in half—he doesn’t look at that part very much, well aware that vomiting on the scene is not a good idea.

Looking at the rest of her isn’t much better. Her arms are tucked close under her body like she’s just laying down out here under the moonlight relaxing, at odds with the look on her face. He can’t tell if it’s terror, anger, or surprise. Being cut in half is probably pretty surprising, he thinks somewhat hysterically.

It’s like she’s been posed. He doesn’t have a clue why the killer would leave half of her here, way off the closest path, and the other half clear on the other side of the Preserve, just out in the open where anyone could find her. He wonders if that was the point—that half of her had to be found, was hidden away. There’s not much blood here either. This isn’t where she was killed.

He pets Daisy, eyes roaming around, hoping the others will get here soon. It’s not that he’s spooked being alone with a dead body, not really, but….

Something about her face seems familiar.

Strong brows, strong jawline, long eyelashes. The expression makes his stomach twist all by itself, but he feels like he’s seen her before, like her name is on the tip of his tongue. 

He swallows hard, preparing himself to go digging through his mental catalog of acquaintances, when he hears some of the other K-9s barking and heading his way.

Thank god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said above, I'm trying to see how interested people are in this so please leave a comment, even if it's just to say you want to read more or that you liked it, thanks <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to whateverrrrwhatever for betaing!!!
> 
> Forgot to say last chapter, but Sam is supposed to be [this lady](https://66.media.tumblr.com/05b9773a9963d26db7c3531f58503067/tumblr_inline_nnqlez2PoJ1qik2ew_1280.jpg) (who I don't think was ever named?), while Tara is of course [this lady](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/teenwolf/images/8/8a/Teen_Wolf_Season_3_Episode_8_Mieko_Hillman_Deputy_Tara_Graeme_investigates_.png/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/600?cb=20131211005644) (wow, Teen Wolf lighting really is fuckin bad)

“So, what happened? How’d you find her?” Tara asks, leaning against a tree. She’s not looking at Stiles as she speaks, instead watching as Deputy Jones unravels the police tape between tree trunks closer to the body. Stiles has his back to the whole thing, which is more than fine by him. His shift ended at midnight, and it’s now 12:07. Time to get out of these woods, out of the rain, and away from the dead body, hallelujah and amen.

“Yeah, she’s pretty far off the path,” Sam adds. She’s got Daisy’s leash in one hand and Comet’s in the other, held in an iron grip. Comet’s by far the most rambunctious K-9 they have, and though he’s not about to go running off—’the most rambunctious’ doesn’t actually mean much since they’re trained to be calm—it’s best for everyone if he’s held tight.

“It’s a boring story, really, one I’d be happy to tell you both over coffee or something tomorrow if you want.” He’s not sure who’ll be working tomorrow, but considering they both have the night shift today, it’s more likely they’ll be doing lunch some other time. “Daise deserves more credit than me, really.”

Tara gives Daisy a pet at his words, softly cooing, “Of course she does,” while still keeping that no-nonsense air of hers. Stiles kinda loves it.

“Hey, uh,” he clears his throat. “She look familiar to you?”

“Who, Daisy?” Sam asks, smirking a little as she purposefully misunderstands him.

Rolling his eyes, he corrects, “No, the victim.”

Both women pause at that, and it’s Tara who says, “If you think you recognize her, you should talk to the Sheriff.”

“I know, I know. I just—she looks familiar, but then, don’t a lot of people? Don’t I look a lot like other white boys with brown hair and brown eyes?”

“Not enough that I couldn’t look at your dead body and not know who you were,” Sam refutes, raising a judgmental eyebrow. “Who’re you thinking she is?”

He rubs at his mouth, wishing he had an answer. “I don’t really know. I’m pretty sure I do recognize her though. And there’s nothing identifying anywhere?”

Neither of them bother to tell him for the second time that no, nothing has been recovered except the two halves. It’s a rhetorical question anyway.

“Shit.”

Before anyone can say anything else, Dad is calling out for him from beyond the tape. “Stiles! C’mere!”

“Duty calls,” he jokes, though nothing about tonight has been particularly funny or happy, period. Ah, old habits. They really do die hard, don’t they? “Have a good night, ladies. I mean, as good as it can be spent out here.”

They both roll their eyes at him, but considering he’s known them for years and his reputation as the collective station’s little brother, he’s pretty sure it’s out of fondness and not actual annoyance. Hopefully.

Stiles heads over to his dad, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The rain is still coming down, but lighter now, thank god. Still, he’s shivering a little by the time he gets to his dad’s side. “What’s up, pops?”

Dad tugs at Stiles’ arm, taking him up the the tape closest to the victim’s head. He carefully looks anywhere but at her face, breathing shallowly to stave off to nausea. It’s getting worse the longer he’s out here.

In an undertone, he asks, “She look familiar to you, son?”

“Wait, what? You think so too?”

Dad isn’t surprised to hear this, obviously. “Yeah. She reminds me of someone, but I just…can’t remember who.” He shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. For now, you think on it, and let me know if you can come up with a name, alright?”

“Yeah, Dad, alright. I mean, yessir mister Sheriff sir.”

He gets a gentle push for that, both of them smiling. As much as Stiles is obviously the Sheriff’s kid—that pesky last name really gives it away—they're both clear that Stiles can't expect any favors from the Sheriff. They decided early on that Stiles should refrain from calling him Dad, though he forgets often. Whenever he remembers, he corrects himself, usually leading to a nice bonding moment like this one. 

Stiles kind of wishes more of those could happen somewhere other than a crime scene, but hey, he’ll take what he can get.

“Go home,” Dad says, and there’s definitely more fondness than annoyance in his voice.

They exchange quick love yous and goodbyes, and then Stiles does just that, trekking back to his cruiser. He runs his hand over his buzz cut a few times, giving into the anxious habit. He can’t help eyeing every single tree like the monster Scott described is hiding behind it, ready to jump out and rip him in half like the body, or shit, maybe just rip into the soft pale flesh of his belly, tangling its claws in his—holy fuck, Stiles, bad thoughts! Bad!

The thought of the body, which he’d managed to push away for a few moments, brings his mind to a screeching halt. It really _ isn’t _ common in Beacon Hills for crimes like this to happen. Crimes of passion, sure, but it’s different, seeing someone get beaten half to death with a baseball bat versus seeing someone _ torn in half _. Jesus Christ. His stomach twists threateningly at the thought of the body, specifically the part where—he has to take shallow, even breaths—the innards had been coming out.

Okay, no no no. He has to stop thinking about it. He’s already in for a world of nightmares but now he’s just making it worse. But if he can’t think about the body, then all that’s left is Scott. Scott, who could’ve really died tonight, like for real _ died _. One hundred percent dead.

Would he have been ripped apart too? Would Stiles have followed the direction of the screaming straight to his friend’s body? He’s more thankful than he could probably ever articulate that that’s not what happened—he isn’t sure he could handle it, honestly—but still. What did happen has shaved years off his life, there’s no doubt about it. Scott screaming in pain, seeing him bloody and wheezing, talking about a monster…. Scott can exaggerate things, just like anybody else, but he wouldn’t about this. So what the hell really did bite him? _ Who _bit him? Is it a who or a what, and is Stiles honestly contemplating that an animal could’ve ripped a human being in half? Or were there two killers in the woods tonight?

Going nowhere with that train of thought, he stops and peers into the dark of the woods, scanning for movement, for anything, but it's no use. With the exception of the bugs that are making valiant attempts at going up his nose, nothing and no one jumps out at him on his way to the car.

_ Way to sound disappointed, Stilinski _, he thinks to himself with an eye roll.

When he gets to it, he takes a moment inside to just sit and breathe, and try very hard to not think about what he’s seen tonight. It doesn’t work—of course it doesn’t work, why would things ever be easy?—so he just sucks it up and exits the Preserve, taking the shortcuts he knows so he can get home quicker. He knows he won’t be able to sleep but it’ll be nice to be inside, out of the rain, away from the…you know, innards.

He forces himself not to think about it any longer, instead tapping out the drum beats of songs against the wheel. It keeps his attention while not distracting him from the road, exactly what he needs in the moment. As he pulls into the driveway of his house, he’s part way through Quiet Riot’s _ Bang Your Head _ . The words come to him from memory, and he sings them out as loudly as he wants, feeling a lot like Dean Winchester. “Join the pack! Fill the crack! Well now you’re here, there’s no way back!” He parks, gathering his stuff as he rounds into the chorus. “Bang your head! Mental health will drive you mad! _ Bang your _—”

“Stiles!” The next door neighbor shouts from her window. She’s a school teacher with much earlier nights than Stiles, and she doesn’t appreciate being woken up by him, or anyone else on the street. However, she has no concern for anyone else when she accounts for her own volume. “Shut the hell up!”

“Sorry,” he calls, hardly embarrassed anymore at the familiar occurrence. In the days of old, he would scurry inside and make her apology cookies for the morning. Now, he just lets himself in and wonders why she hasn’t invested in some good earplugs if she’s so light of a sleeper. It’s not like he’d been all that loud—probably no louder than the Kreutzingers’ old dog could get, and they live way down the street anyway.

His routine is well practiced by now: shoes off by the door, the keys to his cruiser on the hook on the wall under the Jeep’s, his badge on the table under it, and his service weapon into the safe in Dad’s office. Then there’s the quick kitchen raid that yields a delicious pre-made sandwich. He takes it upstairs to his room, leaving the plate on the desk while he changes out of his uniform and into pajamas. He can’t help his sigh of relief, the weight of the world falling off his shoulders once he’s out of the beige and into some faded Star Wars merch.

While he eats, he shoots a few texts to Scott. 

**Stiles:** Are you alright?  
**Stiles:** What’d the doctors have to say???  
**Stiles:** You made it there okay, right?

Chewing absentmindedly, he plays Temple Run and waits for a response. After five rounds and no word, doubt starts to creep into Stiles’ mind. He probably shouldn’t have let Scott go off alone, job be damned. He should’ve at least made sure the kid made it back to his car, if not all the way to the hospital. Is he not replying because he’s there and can’t get to his phone while the doc is talking to him? Or did he start going into shock on the way and crash the car? Did he make it there at all, or is he still out in the Preserve, at the mercy of the mountain lions and killers and monsters? Why the fuck did Stiles leave him out there by himself?

“No,” he says very firmly to himself, aware of his heart rate beginning to speed. “_ No _. This is just your anxiety blowing things out of proportion. If he were in trouble, he would’ve called, and since he didn’t, that must mean he’s okay.”

Stiles has to repeat the sentiments a few times and do a round or two of breathing exercises before he calms down, the terror from earlier still fresh in his mind. But it does work eventually. Kind of. A little bit.

Explosively sighing, Stiles hops out of his chair, pacing a few times before exiting his room. Usually by now, he’d be out cold in bed. That’s just not gonna happen tonight, though, so that leaves the last piece of his routine: the shower. It’s January, and while it’s not nearly as cold as it could be, it’s still nice to stand under the hot water and just take a minute to himself.

Getting in doesn’t actually force the anxiety away, even when he stands there for five long minutes, staring at the wall and scrubbing his shampoo in, all kinds of horrible scenarios running around in his mind. Groaning, he turns to wash it out.

He thinks about the victim, her face burned into his memory probably forever now. Strong brows, strong jawline, long eyelashes. Not exactly uncommon features. Her nose was a little pointy, her hair long and dark, wavy. 

Definitely common, but also definitely, like without a doubt certainly, belonging to someone Stiles must’ve known, must’ve met at least once. He’s good with names or specific features more than the whole face—Dad’s eyes, Heather’s smile, Scott’s dimples, Danielle’s eyebrows, Lydia’s nose, Jackson’s jaw, things like that—but it’s not like he can’t remember faces at all. It makes it all the weirder that this one single face is so out of his reach.

Strong brows, strong jawline, long eyelashes. Pointy nose. Kaleidoscope eyes. God, where has he seen that combination before? 

Shaking his head in frustration, Stiles drops it and quickly washes off his body. He picks up where he left off, belting out Adele while he steps out and dries himself. He pulls his pajamas back on, throws his towel in the hamper.

Back in his room, he tries to sleep for all of five minutes before he gives up. He has a routine here, too—punch the pillow into something comfortable, snuggle into the blanket, entire body except his head and one foot covered. He tries his breathing exercises, attempting to trick his brain into thinking he’s already asleep. When that doesn’t work, he taps his foot incessantly and stares up at his ceiling. All the shadows carry a sense of dread in them, and he swears he can hear the floor in the hallway creaking ominously. Nothing happens, of course. 

Okay, yeah, no. Nope. This isn’t gonna work.

With a sigh, Stiles gets back out of bed, flopping into his desk chair. He checks his phone and sees no new texts from Scott, though apparently Danielle has sent him a viral video of a baby eating a lemon for the first time. It’s absolutely adorable and makes him smile, so he makes sure to send her one back that’s just as cute. It’s their _ thing _, sending videos back and forth. Then he texts Scott: 

**Stiles:** I’m gonna go ahead and assume the reason you haven’t texted me back is because you’re currently sleeping in your hospital room, and you’re totally fine  
**Stiles:** Text me back ASAP. Seriously.

With that done, he turns his attention to his laptop. Even though it’s going on two thirty by now, he goes through his emails, just to have something to do other than check his phone. A lot of them are coupon deals, and he prints all of them without looking. Who knows, maybe someday he’ll need a discount at the local hardware store.

He gets through them disappointingly quickly. Once he’s read the last of the new ones, he sits back and makes a valiant attempt at rubbing his entire face at the same time. It does nothing to ease like…any of the shit it _ could _ ease (fatigue, anyone?), and he thinks, _ thanks for nothing, you shitty self-soothing technique. _

Oh god, he’s finally cracking up, isn’t he?

…Well, whatever. 

He dicks around on the internet for a few more minutes before Dad comes home. When he hears the garage, he shoots to his feet, anxiety slamming into him. Does Dad expect him to know who the victim is by now? Or has he already figured out, and it’s someone Stiles didn’t just met once or twice, it’s someone he knew? Shit.

When he hears his dad on the steps, he goes to the doorway, getting the silly urge to confirm his dad is actually okay, even though nothing really happened that could’ve. And yes, he is fine, thank god. A little wrinkly, which, what? When did that even happen? But overall, ten points for being alive.

Dad’s eyes take a calculated sweep over him, and Stiles fidgets, feeling like he’s see through.

“You doing okay, kiddo?”

Stiles forces a small smile, thinking a scoffing laugh would do wonders to convince him, and totally plans to say yes. What comes out instead is a weird, breathy, high-pitched noise.

Dad softens and steps forward, arms coming up. Stiles falls right into the hug, tucking his nose down and letting his eyes fall shut. His dad’s arms wrap around him tightly, and it’s exactly what he needs, reassuring and grounding.

Unable to help himself, he sways them slightly, another way to comfort the both of them.

“We got her in the morgue,” Dad says. “Tomorrow, we’ll go in and see what we can do, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He breathes in, psyching himself up to ask, “Did you get an ID yet?”

“No. The samples are in the lab, but you know how long that could take.” Frustration laces the words, and look, Stiles totally gets it. He’s always had a hard time being patient about things like this.

He sighs loud enough for his dad to hear, and tucks his face in deeper.

Dad cups the back of his head, rubbing his thumb back and forth affectionately before he pulls away. He still looks tired, the lines on his face deep like they always are when he’s frowning. “I’m gonna shower and head to bed, alright? You go on to bed too. We got an early morning coming our way.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Stiles complains, the very idea enough to make him shudder. Early mornings are the bane of his existence, truly.

That gets a smile out of his dad, though, so really, it’s worth it.

They separate, Dad heading towards his bedroom and Stiles back to his. At his doorway, Dad turns slightly, and points at him. “_ Bed _, Stiles.”

“Okay,” he says, dragging out the ‘a’ sound, just like he did when he was a kid. “I’m not five, you know. I’m a legal adult. I don’t need you to give me a bedtime.”

“Uh-huh. But you’re still going to go get into bed and sleep now, because you’re a mature adult who understands you have to get up early and go to work.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times before blurting out, “Yeah, but not because you’re telling me to, so there!”

He closes his door forcefully—it’s not a slam, he’s not a child anymore, _ god _—and grins when he hears his dad laugh on the other side.

Of course, he doesn’t go to sleep. In one of the drawers of his desk, the only one with a keyhole, he has a file. He pulls it out, laying it open on his desk. There’s an array of papers, pictures (both photographs and drawings are included), reports, all on one subject.

A wolf in the Preserve.

It seems ridiculous, and that’s because it is. There aren’t any wolves in California, and it’s been that way for decades. But the sightings don’t seem to lie. It’s not hugely publicized, the details contained to the files, with most not released to public. Yet they all match, describing a wolf about the size of a huge St. Bernard, dark brown or black fur. Most of the sightings have taken place from a distance, the pictures a little blurry but not too bad. The wolf has never been pictured head on, so he can’t confirm, but some of the reports mention weirdly golden eyes.

Something he can confirm is a timeline—the first sightings started up in April of 2005. The very first one, in fact, happened on a rainy day. A young woman was jogging despite the weather, and witnessed the wolf, then much smaller, curled up under a bench on the side of the path. It huddled away when she went past, though it didn’t move from under the temporary shelter.

After the first, the sightings had been happening with a frequency of about one every three or four months over the past six years. The wolf stays away from the pathways for the most part, keeping to the more heavily wooded areas of the Preserve. There have only been a few sightings total in the winter time, and at least one of those times was near the old Hale house.

On one hand, if the wolf is cold and taking shelter and not ruining anything in there worse than it already is, who’s Stiles to get mad about that? But on the other hand, that house belonged to people he was friends with, and it doesn’t sit well with him how it’s being taken over by nature.

There’s really nothing he can do about it, though. Not unless he wants to go out there and try to shoo it away.

* * *

In the morning, Stiles yawns widely and clutches his thermos full of coffee. He did fall asleep eventually, but his dreams had been full of Scott bleeding out alone in the woods so it’s safe to say he isn’t exactly rested. Dad grumbles something about Stiles being a contagion before he, too, yawns.

_ Reminder to self, _ he thinks. _ Stop picking up shifts for Haigh. Especially after a late night. _

Still, he’s here, and there’s no going back. Not unless he conveniently gets deathly ill. Something must show on his face, though, because Dad takes one look at him and says, “No,” like he’s a puppy or something.

“Dad,” he whines, grateful the only one around right now is Melissa, who thinks he’s adorable. “Why don’t you ever let me slightly poison myself so I can shamelessly get out of work? All the cool dads do it! Don’t you wanna be a cool dad?”

“That’s mister Sheriff sir to you,” is all Dad says in reply.

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.

The ME comes out of the morgue then, face partially hidden behind a medical mask. “Come in, come in,” he says, waving a hand at them and turning right back around. Stiles wonders what the rush is, but doesn’t voice the thought.

His dad goes through first, pausing in the doorway. He speaks over his shoulder. “And just FYI, I _ am _a cool dad.”

Well, duh.

Stiles doesn’t poke back, socially aware enough to know that this isn’t the best place for banter. He stays farther away from the table than the ME and his dad do, holding his coffee close. Spilling it in here might just get him that ass kicking Dad’s been joking about for years.

The ME looks between them once before launching into his explanation, pointing out some of the wounds on the body. “Beyond the hemicorporectomy, there are several other spots that caught my attention. You see, her throat has been torn out.”

“Torn out?” Stiles and Dad say at the same time. Sure, it’d been dark last night, but Stiles is sure he would’ve noticed something like that.

“Yes. That, along with these bite marks on the legs, make me think she was attacked by an animal. There are also scratches on her back that could have come from an animal, but I’m not certain. I’ve sent in some more samples this morning, but the results could take days. You know how these things are.”

“Yeah,” Dad says, staring down at the body. “What I’m not understanding is how an animal—_ any _ animal—could’ve cut her in half like this.”

His dad and the ME start discussing it, but Stiles tunes out, eyes glazing over a little.

In the light of the morgue, the mud and blood cleaned off her face, he can see her so much better. And fucking shit, he _ does _recognize her.

“Dad.” He clears his throat, saying a little louder, “Dad. I think I know who she is.”

Both of them turn to look at him, his dad giving him an encouraging look. 

“That’s Laura. Laura Hale.”

He hadn’t known her super well. She was six years older than him. Whenever he hung out around the Hale house, she was either out with her boyfriend or helping watch over the really young kids. Stiles, Rose, Adam, and Cora hadn’t needed nearly as much supervision, and if they ever had anyone watching over them, it was Derek, who usually sat nearby reading his books instead of actually paying any attention.

He’d known, of course, that Laura was one of the only three survivors. But after the funerals, she and Derek skipped town, and Stiles was too busy grieving his friends to care all that much where their older siblings went. More than once, he’s visited Peter, but it’s been a while since he did last.

Dad’s mouth drops open the tiniest bit, and he looks at her, really looks, and Stiles knows what he sees, because it’s coming back to him all in a rush, too. All those features Stiles couldn’t piece together? Every Hale had them. They weren’t a family of clones, but their resemblance lay in their faces, in their strong brows, strong jawlines, long eyelashes. Pointy noses. Kaleidoscope eyes. Dark, curly hair. He can’t be one hundred percent certain this is her—the last time he saw her, she was nineteen years old, and that was six years ago now—but she looks so much like Talia. Like Grandma Hazel, who used to pinch Stiles’ cheeks, and Aunt Julie, who let him help her make cookies.

“Jesus,” Dad says on an exhale, barely any sound coming out.

“We have to call Derek.” Next of kin needs to be notified. That’s Derek. _ Just _Derek. Fuck.

"I've—I've got to—" Stiles doesn't bother finishing his sentence before he's stepping through the swinging doors and reaching for his phone. This isn’t news that shouldn’t be shared over a call, but he’s pretty sure there’s no other choice. It’s better if it’s him calling, not Dad, anyway. For all the Stiles didn’t know her, not really, Dad knew her even less. She was rarely the one who’d answer the door when Stiles got dropped off, and there weren’t many other options for them to meet.

It’s not hard at all to text Ramirez and have him look Derek up in the database, finding his number from an arrest a little under a year before and sending it Stiles’ way. A fight in a bar in New York City. He wonders why they went so far away, but only for a second. If his dad died, he’d want to get the hell out too.

He punches in the numbers on his desk phone and brings it to his ear, taking a quick sip of his coffee to help settle his nerves.

It rings twice before a man is answering. “Hello?”

“Is this Derek Hale?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I don’t know if you remember me, but we knew each other as kids. I’m a Sheriff’s deputy now, you know, in Beacon Hills?” He doesn’t wait for Derek to reply. “Um, I’m calling you because, well, because we found a body last night in the Preserve, and we have reason to believe that it’s Laura. I’m so sorry to ask you to do this, but we need someone to positively ID her. I’m—we’re pretty sure it is her, but no one here has seen her in so long, we can’t be the ones to do it.”

More silence. Then Derek inhales—Stiles thinks his voice shakes, but the sound is so quiet he isn’t sure—and says, “I’m already in town. When do I need to come in?”

“Any time today should be fine,” Stiles replies. Before he can say anything else, Derek hangs up, and Stiles is left sitting at his desk, listening to the tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm interested to hear what you guys think, if you have any predictions, etc etc...let me know!!
> 
> ALSO Derek makes his real debut in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta whateverrrwhatever, who has made this chapter much better than it could've been <3

Derek Hale as a teenager had baby fat in his cheeks, a skip in his step he attributed to basketball practice, and an easy smile. He rolled his eyes all the time, was self conscious about his bunny teeth, and got infuriated when Laura and Cora called him ‘Bunnicula’. He let his Aunt Julie and Aunt Melanie bug him about girls and he taught his cousin Rose how to do a backflip on the trampoline. He had stars in his eyes when he hung out with his Uncle Peter. He played Hot Wheels with Shawn and Tristan, even though he’d turned sixteen last fall, and he held Emma in his arms like she was the most precious thing in the world. He had spirited debates with his dad. He wasn’t ashamed to hug his mom.

These are facts that Stiles had forgotten over time, but when he sees Derek again, not even an hour after he got off the phone, and six years since the last time—at the funeral, where he’d been wearing a too-big borrowed suit and his face had been scarily devoid of any emotion at all—they all come slamming back into his memory. 

The Derek Hale that Stiles meets today? He’s wearing a leather jacket that‘s somehow familiar to Stiles, but isn’t something he could’ve ever pictured Derek wearing back then. It’s strange to see him in it as opposed to soft Henleys or his basketball jersey. He’s scowling, which is totally understandable if Stiles thinks about it for even a second. His hair is styled up. He’s clean shaven and he glares at Stiles like Stiles is about to punch him or something. When Stiles meets him at the front desk at the station, Derek just glares some more at his proffered hand instead of taking it.

Another thing about this new Derek: he’s fucking gorgeous. 

Yes, Stiles is aware how inappropriate that thought is. But is it—is  _ he _ —wrong? Not even a little bit. 

Stiles clears his throat and takes his hand back. He fidgets and bends the top corner of the file in his hand. “Well. I’m Deputy Stilinski, Stiles I mean. Um, we spoke on the phone?”

“And you’re Derek Hale,” he says when there’s no response. He gets nervous around pretty people, okay? “I recognize you. I mean—okay, yeah, you’ve grown up a lot since you were fifteen, and hey! You don’t look so gangly anymore. Not that that’s important right now, Jesus Christ, I’m just going to shut up.” 

“Yeah,” is all Derek says. Stiles has a sinking suspicion that he's making an ass of himself, but it's a little too late to turn back now. Knowing his luck, Derek’s agreeing to the shutting up part. Blushing furiously, he gestures for Derek to follow him, and takes him to the small staff room.

This is another one of the parts of Stiles’ job he hates. Death doesn’t really affect him in the way it does some people and while he’s got a hard time being around bodies for a prolonged time, seeing the people lying on the metal tables in the morgue isn’t that emotionally draining for him. Being there for the people left behind, though,  _ that’s  _ what’s hard. He’s had to hold people as they sobbed and wailed over the death of their spouse. He’s comforted children screaming, in physical and emotional pain. He’s helped pull people out of car wrecks, held people while they died, heard all sorts of horrible noises and seen every face a person can make in agony.

It freaking sucks.

Bringing people to the morgue is the common cliche, but doing it this way—taking them to a room, show them pictures of their loved ones so they can say ‘yes, this one is mine’…it  _ sucks _ . It’s not really any better than the fictional version. It might even be easier to deal with the dramatic reveal on TV shows, at least for Stiles. This way is too intimate. Too quiet.

The staff room has comfortable chairs, at least, and everyone has cleared out so Stiles can do this alone. He closes the door behind them. “You can just sit anywhere.”

“Don’t we need to go to the morgue?” Derek asks, his voice perfectly even.

“That’s just a thing they do on TV,” Stiles explains. “The real procedure is different. Um, do you want to sit at the table?”

“Do we have to sit?”

“I guess not.”

So they just stand there staring at each other before Stiles blinks and realizes he’s supposed to start.

Clearing his throat, he stands a little straighter. “Right. The way this works is that I’m supposed to show you the picture of her face first, and then you can just let me know if it’s her or not. If you’re unsure, there are pictures of other identifiers like birthmarks. If you’re still unsure, we’ll need to contact her place of work and any friends you know of so they can try, too. All good so far?”

He gets a nod in response, which is good enough.

“Okay. I’m going to show you the one of her face now. Her eyes are closed and there aren’t really any wounds or blood. There is a little cut on her forehead but that’s all.”

Stiles hands him the photo face down, as is procedure. Derek flips it and doesn’t make a noise. He doesn’t crumble or cry or anything at all. He just looks at her.

These moments always make Stiles feel like he’s intruding on something intensely private, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He hates it. He can’t leave Derek here alone. Sure, he can step away for a moment, but he has to stay. Has to make sure Derek sees the rest of the photos if necessary, and can get the number to the grief counselor.

After a few more moments, Stiles asks gently, “Is that your sister Laura, or do you need to see the other photos?” There’s one of a few freckles on her arm, one of the swirly tattoo on her ankle, and one of a beauty mark on her neck. The last one was so close to the damage, though, that he really doesn’t want to show that one unless he has to. They couldn’t keep all of the wound out of the shot.

Derek inhales. His breath wobbles in the middle, almost catches. Then—”No.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” He doesn’t take the picture back. Honestly, he’s not sure he even  _ could _ , not when Derek still won’t look away from it. “Derek, I’m...I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Stiles swallows hard against the ache in his throat. It’s more real like this,  _ Laura’s  _ more real like this. Except, Laura’s dead. Laura, the girl who used to push him on the swings and eat the fake cookies he and Rose made.  _ Fuck _ .

Pushing past it—he has to be professional, dammit—he clears his throat and asks, “I’m supposed to tell you about her injuries now, but we can wait however long you need.”

He expects they’ll be waiting a while, but instead, Derek huffs a sigh and goes over to the table. He sits, still holding the photo, still focused on it. Cautiously, Stiles follows him over.

They sit for just a few moments before Derek gestures for him to talk. So he does. He explains about the wounds, being careful not to put his foot back in his mouth. It’s a lot easier when he’s in Deputy Mode with a script to follow. 

Derek only really reacts to two things, Stiles notices: that Laura’s throat was torn out, and that she was cut in half. The first one makes Derek twitch, his jaw clenching obviously, but the second one makes him go even more blank. He turns to Stiles and asks, “Are there any suspects yet?”

“We’re looking into it,” Stiles promises. “But actually, I did have some more questions I need to ask you.”

That gets him a suspicious look. The one that used to be pointed at him when he and Adam would run around the house, giggling about whatever chaos they’d caused that day. “Like what?”

“Like, when did you get here?”

They have a brief stare off, one Stiles refuses to lose. Sure, he can be clumsy with the emotional stuff sometimes, especially in the face of someone so attractive, but this is important shit here. He’s not going to mess it up by looking away first, not going to let Derek think he can be cowed or that he doesn’t have the balls to be impartial. 

Finally, Derek says, “A few hours ago.”

Super early in the morning, then. “Okay, and why did you come?” He couldn’t have known Laura was dead, not until Stiles called him. It’s suspicious, and as much as Stiles doesn’t want it to be the case that Derek  _ killed  _ his  _ sister _ , the detective in him can’t ignore the possibility. Even if it feels like Derek had nothing to do with this.

“She told me she’d check in with me before bed every night she was here, and when she didn’t, I got nervous and got on a plane as soon as I could.” Derek clenches his jaw, looking away from the table, from Stiles and the picture of Laura. “She’s never missed a call before. We’re…she’s—she  _ was  _ all I have left. I got nervous.”

The way he says it is  _ heartbreaking _ . Stiles can’t help but soften, wishing he could reach out and comfort him. His gut impressions are usually correct, and right now, it’s telling him that Derek didn’t do this. Still, he asks, “When was the last time you spoke to her? What did she say?”

“Yesterday afternoon, around…it was one, so it would’ve been about ten in the morning here. She didn’t say much, just that she was probably going to come home soon. She was going to visit our Uncle Peter one last time and  _ come home _ .”

Derek isn’t crying, but Stiles can feel his own eyes welling up. Just a little, teensy tiny bit. He has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “I’m sorry that that’s not how it happened.”

“Yeah. Me too.” 

The words are said so quietly, Stiles isn’t sure if he heard them correctly, but he doesn’t ask.

“I only have two more questions, okay? And then we can get you in touch with a grief counselor, if that’s what you need. And there’s no shame in that, I don’t know if you remember but I had one after my mom died, and it—I mean, it can help.” It hadn’t, really, but Stiles isn’t about to say that. He does have  _ some  _ common sense.

Derek meets his eyes again. “I remember you saying you hated her and she was just trying to make you cry all the time, so clearly she was an evil villain. Trying to tear down the hero in his time of need or something.”

Blushing in embarrassment, Stiles tries to play it off. “Well, I was a stubborn eight year old who loved Batman. Batman isn’t very receptive to therapy, so I didn’t think I should be either. But I wasn’t kidding about those questions. What did Laura come to town for?”

The question makes Derek retreat into himself again, though Stiles hadn’t noticed when he came out. “She came to town for reasons concerning our family estate.”

It sounds rehearsed. There's definitely something more there, but now isn't the time to address it, so Stiles doesn’t push. If they bring him in for more formal questioning, he’ll deal with it then. “Okay. Last one: do you know of anyone who might want to do this to her? Anyone who might be angry with her, or you, even? Any boyfriends who got their hearts broken, maybe?”

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the lie.

“If you think of anyone, let us know. It could help us find her murderer quicker than we might otherwise.”

It’s maybe a little manipulative. A little bit. Something he’s more than happy to say he learned from his dad.

The look Derek gives him is intense and evaluating. When Stiles raises his eyebrows, Derek seems to deflate, his eyes flicking down Stiles’ face and hovering around his chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay, good. Let me leave you my number, alright?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just hurries out to his desk to get one of his business cards. Using a pen from his pocket, he writes down his cell on the back, adding ‘Call me anytime!’ under it for good measure. It feels sleazy, but what if Derek thinks of something? It’s hella easier to call than have to come all the way to the station.

He pretends he wouldn’t have liked to give Derek his number under different circumstances.

Derek takes the card once Stiles returns back to the room, flipping it over in his hand. He doesn’t react to Stiles’ handwriting, but does drag his thumb over where Stiles’ name is embossed on the front. “When can I claim her body?”

“It depends on the investigation. I’ll let you know as soon as you can. Now, about that grief counselor—”

“I’m good,” Derek says, standing up. The paper goes into one of his pockets, though his hands stay out, fingers curled tightly. The sleeves of his leather jacket are a smidgen too long, in a stupidly endearing way. Then Derek pulls something out of his other pocket—an inhaler. “Tell your friend to stop trespassing, would you?”

He doesn’t bother to wait for a response, just leaves the room and disappears out of sight.

Suspicion sweeps through him. Yeah, he mentioned Scott a few times as a kid, but usually only to Cora, who was just a year older than him. He can’t remember if he ever talked about his friend in front of Derek, but really, if he can’t remember, how could Derek?

He fiddles with the inhaler, turning it over in his hands. “S.M.” is written on the back.

Huh.

Sighing heavily, Stiles stuffs the inhaler in his chest pocket, and pulls out his phone. Scott still hasn’t gotten back to him from the night before.

**Stiles:** Someone brought your inhaler in but you don’t get to have it back until you GET BACK TO ME

With that done, he goes back out to the bullpen. His desk is by Tara’s, but she’s at home, probably still asleep, so he has some peace and quiet.

Except that peace and quiet make it very hard for him to do his damn job.

He pulls up a case file over most of the screen, and a game of solitaire on the rest. For a while, he alternates between looking over the information and making a list of knowns and unknowns, and playing cards. Dad comes out and tells him to take his break after an hour or so, and they eat lunch in his office.

Stiles doesn’t really say anything, just munches on his sandwich as his thoughts swirl around in his head. Most of them are about Scott and how he still hasn’t texted back—god, flaky much? But on the other hand, he still doesn’t know if the kid is even alive, so maybe that’s why he’s not replying? Which, woah, bad thought, Stiles,  _ bad thought _ ! He vows to himself that if Scott still hasn’t replied by the time his shift is over, he’ll head by the McCalls’ to make sure everything is okay.

He also spares some brainpower for Derek, too. Stiles has known since he was about Scott’s age that he’s into guys, but just about every crush he’s had on one has been on a celebrity. Well, other than a few unwanted wet dreams that starred Danny, but those don’t count. Kind of hard to maintain a crush on a guy who’s made it very clear you’re nothing more than a friend to him.

And this thing he has for Derek. It’s not a thing. It can’t be a thing. Sure, he’s hot, but no. Just…no. Talk about inappropriate.

“You’re thinking awful hard there, son,” Dad says.

“Just…,” Stiles sighs. “ _ Boys _ , you know?”

The look Dad gives him makes something inside him cringe. His dad’s never been very interested in hearing about stuff like that ( _ that _ being his sex life). Stiles hasn’t exactly come out to his him yet, but he hasn’t exactly kept his disastrous bisexual heart a secret, either. “I don’t think I do, no.”

It’s not an invitation to explain, but Stiles does anyway. “I meant Scott, okay? Scott! You know, the guy who’s like my kid brother? I texted him last night and he’s ignoring me.”

“He’s in school, he probably doesn’t have time to chat.” His dad’s face smooths out with the confirmation that they aren’t headed for a Talk.

“See, I would believe that, except I know for a fact that he’s got a free period right now. So. He’s ignoring me.”

“Maybe he’s more concerned about his grades, then,” Dad suggests. The undertone of approval is more obvious than it ever is when he’s talking about Stiles.

It’s stupid how they can weather the storms of Mom’s death and Stiles’ anxiety and all kinds of horrible work-related stuff, but the second it comes to the normal father-son thing, they just fall apart.

He finishes his last bite and stands up, chest hollow. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, break’s over. See ya.”

Going back to his desk, his legs feel leaden. There’s actually still about ten minutes of his break left, so maybe he could spend it outside. Fresh air’s always good for existential depression, right?

There’s a smoker’s spot out back, with a bench and everything. He’s the only one out there, thank god, and he settles heavily onto the seat.

He barely manages to take one breath before his phone is ringing.

“Hey,” Scott greets him, cool as a cucumber.

“Scott. It’s so nice to hear your voice. After you totally left me hanging for over twelve hours, I was a little, you know, worried about you. Especially considering the fact that the last time I saw you,  _ you were injured _ ! Badly!”

“Stiles, I’m fine. Okay? I’m fine. I didn’t end up going to the hospital, I didn’t need it. I put one of those big bandages on it and when I checked it this morning, it hadn’t bled through. Doesn’t even hurt. But anyway, that’s not why I’m calling.”

Stiles scoffs incredulously. “That’s not why—?”

“Dude, I think I was bitten by a wolf.”

“That’s impossible,” Stiles blurts out.

“I heard a wolf howling that night. The bite looks like a dog bite, but bigger, and I couldn’t really see the thing that well, but trust me, whatever it was that bit me? It was not a dog. It was way too big.”

“There haven’t been any wolves in California for like 60 years. Well, except one, but—”

“It must’ve been that one, then.” He says it like it’s pure fact.

“Uh, see, that’s  _ impossible _ . ‘Cause that one wolf is scared of humans. It has never bitten anyone before. Like, never ever. And it’s really not that much bigger than like, a big dog. Okay? So whatever you’re thinking is wrong.”

“Maybe,” Scott hedges. “Look, I gotta go.”

“Wait, I wanted to talk about the bi—”

“Talk to you later.” And then Scott is hanging up. Wonderful.

Break’s over for real now, so Stiles goes back inside. Adding chewing gum helps him keep his focus even better, and he makes his way through reviewing the rest of the case and the paperwork for another one and a half.

When his phone buzzes, he ignores it to power through the last case. It’s a standard car wreck, the man who was on his phone so clearly the one at fault, though without a dashcam video it takes more work to get everything together. Once it’s done, though, he decides he deserves a little break and checks his texts.

**Lyds:** I’m throwing a party on Friday. You’re coming.

**Stiles:** Wouldn’t miss it for the world

**Lyds:** Of course you wouldn’t. Just a warning, there’s going to be a lot of high schoolers there. Jackson insisted on inviting a new girl he’s befriended, apparently she’s my “type”  
**Lyds:** Like, in a friend way. I asked him what he meant by that and he said “hot and three dimensional”

**Stiles:** Wow  
**Stiles:** I didn’t know he knew words with more than two syllables  
**Stiles:** Anyway, that’s fine. I’ll just stay away from the punch ig  
**Stiles:** Plausible deniability FTW

**Lyds:** Haha. Should I put you down for a plus one? Plus two? Would Heather and Danielle want to come?

**Stiles:** Nah, they’re both still down in Chico. I don’t think they’d want to come up for one party on such short notice

“Deputy Stilinski!” Dad shouts from the doorway to his office. Stiles startles violently, nearly knocking his chair over and going down with it. “Back to work!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this](everplans.com/articles/how-identifying-a-body-in-real-life-is-nothing-like-tv-or-movies) was the site I used to get the first scene right. it's still not actually 100% true to life but close enough ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear any predictions/theories/thoughts you guys had!! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to whateverrrwhatever for betaing!! <3
> 
> some of the dialogue you see here is familiar, bc it came straight from the show. let me disclaim these lines now. I don't own them, I didn't write them, and I am not making any profit off my use of them.

“You put the boom boom into my heart,” Stiles sings, swinging the door shut behind him. “You send my soul sky high when your lovin' starts!”

He kicks his shoes off, hangs up his keys and leaves his badge on the table. On his way to his dad’s office, he continues, ”Jitterbug into my brain, goes a bang-bang-bang 'til my feet do the saaaame.” He hums the rest of the verse as he spins the lock and opens the safe.

He heads to the kitchen next, popping his frozen dinner into the microwave. Giving a little shimmy, he continues on with the song, belting out the chorus as loudly as he dares (which is actually pretty loud—his dad is upstairs taking a shower, and it’s not  _ that  _ late, so who even cares?). 

The loud beep comes with the sudden and insistent buzzing of his phone.

He swipes to answer and doesn’t bother looking at who it is before he puts it up to his ear. With his hands free, he pulls the plate out of the microwave, hissing at how hot it is. “’Lo?”

For the second time in one day, Scott’s voice fills up his ear. “Stiles! Oh my god, dude.”

Biting off a curse, Stiles almost drops the plate in his haste to set it down on the counter. “Yeah? What’s up? You doin’ okay? Need to go to the hospital? I can give you a ride.” He pulls the salt shaker off the spice rack and liberally coats his meal, made up of mashed potatoes, green beans, and what’s supposedly a hunk of steak. He has his doubts, but not enough to keep him from eating it.

“That’s why I called—I’m okay. Like, when I got back from work, I went to the bathroom to change the bandage and when I took it off, there wasn’t a bite anymore!”

“So it scabbed over? Happened pretty fast, didn’t it?”

“No, it’s gone. Totally gone. Like, no sign it was ever even there gone.” Scott sounds impressed and grossed out, which is admittedly pretty par for the course with him.  _ Teenagers _ , Stiles thinks fondly, cutting into the steak and frowning at how cold it is in the center. Gonna need another trip to the microwave for sure.

“Dude, did you get enough sleep last night? Or hit your head maybe? ‘Cause it sounds like you’re hallucinating or something.”

“Stiles, I’m being serious,” Scott huffs. “It’s gone. I’m totally healed. It’s like there was no bite.”

He chews a bite of the green beans. Scott really  _ does  _ sound serious, more so than normal. Which means he should maybe be freaking out right now. “Wha—Okay, holy shit. Do I need to come over? I feel like I need to—”

“No! No, I’m fine, I can show you on your next day off or something. It’s not like there’s actually something to see anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. I mean, it just looks like my normal stomach.”

“I still think I should check it out,” Stiles hedges. “Or better yet, your mom. Or any person with more knowledge of first aid than me.” He’s been through training and has read many wikihows, but still. Animal bites that heal within 24 hours are more than a little out of his depth.

“Eh, I’m sure I’m fine. Listen—I actually wanted to tell you about something more important. I met a girl today.” His voice takes on a dreamy quality, one Stiles has heard a few times before but not in a couple months at least.

“Scott, that’s great, but I really think we should foc—”

“ _ Stiles _ ,” Scott laughs a little breathlessly. “I’m okay, man. I promise. But seriously, this girl, her name is Allison and she’s so pretty. Like, I think my heart stopped beating pretty. And it was really weird, ‘cause I could hear her from outside?”

“Was she yelling?” Stiles asks, resigning himself to this conversation. It’s not that he’s uninterested or doesn’t feel happy for his friend, it’s just that girls are less concerning than wounds magically healing themselves. But Scott is a person with a one track mind, and there’s no changing it now. Stiles stuffs his face with the last of the green beans, moving on to the potatoes.

“No, that’s what makes it so crazy. She was just talking on the phone at a normal volume, sitting on the bench near the front, and I could hear her.  _ From inside the building _ . I heard her say she couldn’t find a pen, so when she came into my class, I just…I offered her a pen. And she smiled at me. Stiles, her smile is—it’s beautiful, like, like, like I don’t even know but oh my god! Her name is Allison and she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” Scott trails off, lost in Allison-related thoughts.

“You told me her name twice,” Stiles points out. “But what do you mean? Dude, there’s no way you really heard her talking so far away. Did you learn how to read lips or something?”

“It’s not like that, okay? She was facing away from the window, and I could  _ hear  _ her. I wasn’t just imagining what she sounded like. It was really weird. But I don’t know, I’m not sure what to think.” 

Stiles opens his mouth to say something about how that’s not possible, but then Scott makes an excited noise.

“Dude! I totally forgot! I played goalie during practice today, and I did really well too! But it’s kind of crazy, ‘cause it was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball, even though I knew I didn’t. But it  _ felt  _ like I did. And dude, I could, ugh, I could smell things I shouldn’t be able to.”

Chewing still, Stiles asks, “Smell things? Like what?”

“Like, Danny had mint mojito gum in his pocket. I could tell even before he offered some to Jackson,” Scott says, his distaste for Stiles’ friend clear in his voice. He likes Danny fine, but Jackson is a whole other matter, someone Scott sees as a bully and nothing more. “And Isaac was sweating really hard like the whole time, and I could tell because it smelled way more than usual.”

He fidgets his fork, twirling it between his fingers. “And all this started with the bite?”

“Yeah…. I’m not dying, am I? There aren’t any diseases where people get super senses and then die, right?  _ Right _ ? This isn’t like an infection, like, my body's flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something, is it?”

“You know, it sounds like lycanthropy,” Stiles says dryly, shoving another forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“What?” Scott yelps. “What is that? Is that bad?”

“Oh yeah, it’s the worst. But only once a month.”

“Once a month…?”

Stiles hums, “Yeah, on the full moon.” Then he howls, laughing at the affronted noise his friend makes. “Hey, you’re the one who said you saw a wolf.”

“Yeah, and you’re the one who said it couldn’t be the one wolf that’s actually in those woods!”

“Dude, the probability of that wolf being the thing that bit you, and that bite being the thing that’s now causing whatever this is is so small, I feel stupid even considering it. Okay?”

“You know, there could be something really wrong with me.”

“Either you’re a werewolf or you’re having an allergic reaction or something. You know, if you’d gone to the hospital, the doctors could’ve helped figure out what this is.”

Scott’s silence is extremely telling. With a sigh, Stiles scoops up the last bit of his food and stuffs it in his mouth, buying a moment to think before he replies. Dad comes down while he’s chewing and raises an eyebrow at the phone. Stiles makes an exaggerated annoyed face, one his dad understands well. He moseys on to the living room, content that Stiles is fine.

“Scotty, man, I don’t know how much clearer I could’ve made it that you  _ needed  _ to go to the hospital. Whatever bit you could have rabies or something, something that could seriously hurt you! Why didn’t you go?”

“It’s not a big deal, Stiles! I was fine, I  _ am  _ fine, it’s like nothing even happened. I went home and patched myself up. If I went, it would’ve been a big waste of time and money.”

“Your health is more important than money, dipshit. Did you at least let your mom look at it?”

Scott huffs and Stiles can easily picture the accompanying eye roll.

“Oh my god, dude,” Stiles complains. He forces his voice to soften when he says, “Look, I’m just worried about you, okay? Clearly something is going on, but I’m not equipped to deal with it. Just…urgh. Hold on.” He pulls a notepad out of one of the drawers in the kitchen and grabs a pen from his chest pocket to hurriedly record what Scott has told him so far. Heightened smell, heightened hearing, adrenaline rushes, wound healed completely in 24 hours. “What else have you noticed since you were bitten?”

Scott reiterates what he’d already said, and explains everything else he was able to hear that he shouldn’t have during the school day and how he could breathe so much more easily than normal during practice. Stiles looks at the list and tries to think of any disease or disorder or anything that it could all fit under, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing but lycanthropy, that is, which just straight up impossible. But the super healing and easier breathing make it obvious to Stiles that this isn’t just some brain thing, which could affect Scott’s senses. Brain things don’t fix huge ass bite marks and asthma.

“I’m not dying, right?” Scott says again, sounding small and worried.

_ You might have a better idea if you’d gone to the damn hospital, _ he thinks. “I—I don’t think so, Scotty. But if you notice anything else, call me, alright?”

Scott agrees, sounding equal parts annoyed and touched. Before the conversation can go anywhere else, Stiles hears Melissa in the background, coming home and calling out that she has dinner. “I gotta go,” Scott says. “But yeah, I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Yeah, good. Go have dinner, bro,” Stiles replies, letting Scott be the one to hang up.

Dad comes in a few minutes later, finding Stiles still standing there. “Scott doing alright?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so.”

His dad pauses, eyeing Stiles up and down. “Are you?”

Stiles looks up finally, meeting his gaze. He learned a long time ago that avoiding eye contact is a sign of a lie, and John Stilinski is better than most at sniffing those out. “I’m fine, Dad.”

John hums, but accepts it and grabs a drink out of the fridge. “You ready to watch the game now?”

“Just let me change real quick and I will be,” Stiles says, heading upstairs and taking the notebook with him.

* * *

“Hey,” Tara says, standing up at her desk and leaning over to his. “Forensics came back on Hale, so come on.”

Stiles jumps up and follows her, managing to only trip over his feet once. Quite the accomplishment really. When they get to the door of his dad’s office, she holds it open for him, and he nods his thanks, leaving the open seat on the couch for her. Sam is already sitting on the other side and Deputies Jones and O’Connor are both leaning against the wall. Stiles ends up standing a little awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying to avoid blocking the door or bringing down any of the file cabinets by leaning against them. 

Dad takes his time standing, a pen tucked behind his ear and his attention focused more on the file than any of the others in the room. He comes around his desk to perch on its front, humming contemplatively.

He looks up from the folder before any of them have to try and catch his attention. “Forensics on the body came in,” he says, like they don’t already know. “We can confirm she was Laura Jane Hale, born February 15th, 1985, twenty-five years old. The coroner found that the cause of death was the throat wound, not the hemi—hemicorpo—the being cut in half, that is.”

Stiles swallows hard. The implications are, well, they’re a lot. Other than the wolf and some mountain lions, there’s hardly anything dangerous in the Preserve, nothing remotely large or strong enough to cut someone in half. Or tear. Or rip, or rend, or—or maybe he should focus, holy god.

“Any evidence on the perpetrator?” O’Connor asks. He sounds no-nonsense, but then, he’s been in the profession much longer than Stiles, and has seen a lot more of the serious cases like this one. Transferring from Los Angeles to Beacon Hills was probably like going from…well, like going from a city full of gruesome murders to a city known for its number of non-fatal car wrecks. Stiles hadn’t been surprised to see him at the scene last night.

Dad sighs heavily. “They believe it was a wolf. The bite marks and scratches would point to an animal of some sort, but the throat cinches it. That’s wolf behavior right there.”

“And what, they think a wolf did all that and then tore her in half?” Sam asks, scoffing. 

“Essentially,” Dad replies.

“There’s a wolf in the Preserve, isn’t there?” Jones asks, looking around the room. 

_ The implications, _ Stiles thinks, frustrated and caught halfway between defensive and hopeless. Scott thinks he was bitten by a wolf. Laura Hale was probably killed by one. And there is most certainly a wolf in the woods, a very obvious main suspect in both instances.

Tara looks to Stiles and raises an eyebrow, acutely aware that she’s most likely remembering the time she caught him reviewing his file on the wolf case. Of course, everyone notices she’s looking at him, so they turn to look too.

“Son?” His dad waves a hand, inviting him to explain.

He takes a deep breath, settling his nerves the tiniest bit. “There  _ are  _ reports of wolf sightings in the Preserve, yes. But it’s scared of humans, by all accounts. There was a case where some kids went out and found it, and tried to mess with it. None of those kids were hurt, just growled at enough to scare them off.”

“How exactly were they messing with it?” Tara asks.

“They circled around it and were poking it with sticks and stuff, and I think they said they were yelling, trying to scare it.” Stiles is still a little furious about it. He’d been a newbie when it happened—those kids had been the first people he ever reamed out as a Deputy. “It’s just a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

He casts his eyes around the room, hoping they’ll agree with him. His colleagues are good, unbiased people, but sometimes when they look at him, he feels like all they see is the kid who’s always been underfoot.

“It’s a wild animal, Stiles.” Sam shakes her head. “If the victim was messing with it, more than those kids were, then—”

“She wasn’t,” Stiles blurts out. “I mean, I seriously doubt it. I knew the Hales, okay, and they loved animals. Laura never would’ve purposefully antagonized a wolf.”

“Then maybe someone else did?” Jones suggests. “And it ran off, and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

It doesn’t feel right. Stiles hasn’t seen the wolf in person, but he’s studied the case, goes back to it to settle himself after long days. He doesn’t have all the facts, like why it came here or how, but he feels a strange connection with the wolf. And he knows, he just  _ knows _ , that it didn’t do this.

But he doesn’t say any of that. 

Dad meets the eyes of each of his deputies, landing on Stiles last before looking away. “I’ll talk to Dr. Deaton, see if he thinks it could’ve been anything else. For now, keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes, sir,” they all say at once, sensing that the debrief is over. The women stand and make their way out, the men following behind. 

“Stiles?” Dad says before he can make it out, too. He twists around, narrowly missing braining himself on the doorway. Thankfully, Dad doesn’t comment on it. “I hope you’re right about that wolf.”

An embarrassed flush creeps up Stiles’s neck. God, it’s like he thinks Stiles is a child or something. Just spewing opinions willy-nilly, like he’d compromise an investigation because he thinks some wild animal is cute. Stiles looks down, biting his lip. He knows his dad isn’t doing it on purpose, has never done it on purpose. On some level, he can even  _ understand _ . Having your only living relative be your ADHD-riddled, irresponsible child can’t be easy. But it still sucks. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I hope so too.”

* * *

It’s a known fact that Stiles has mastered Google-fu. It’s a lesser known fact that, after his mom got diagnosed, Stiles went on a six-month Wikipedia binge and read up on basically every disease, disorder, syndrome, illness, et cetera that he could in a desperate, futile attempt at control. His little brain thought if he knew everything, then he’d be able to diagnose other people in his life well before it was too late. He’s forgotten a lot of what he learned in the intervening years, but as he looks down at the list of Scott’s symptoms, he’s pretty certain that they don’t fit  _ anything _ .

Web-MD informs him that Scott is on the verge of certain death, but that’s nothing new. Honestly, he’s not sure why he bothered checking the site.

Sighing loudly, he opens a blank page.  _ Sensitive hearing _ , he types in the search bar.  _ Accelerated healing. Heightened speed and agility. Sudden improvement in chronic illness. _ He taps fingers anxiously as he waits for the results to load.

When he sees them, he lets out an incredulous laugh.

‘Cause, see,  _ all of the results _ ? Are about lycanthropy. As in, werewolves. Werewolfism. People who howl at full moons. Lunatics, if you will.

One of the first hits is a Yahoo! Answers from a few years ago. The poster describes being attacked by a “wild animal”—variety unknown, it was too dark—and developing all the same symptoms Scott described, along with a 100 degree fever that didn’t seem to actually affect them but hadn’t gone away. There are hardly any answers, most of which amount to “go to the hospital immediately.” 

The last answer, though? For some reason, while he’s reading it, his arms break out in goosebumps.

Posted by user HoodieBlueMonk, it reads, “I’d try and find out exactly what kind of people live in your town as quickly as possible. You only have a few days left. Otherwise, goodnight moon.”

This person has to be crazy, or maybe they’re threatening the original poster, he thinks wildly. This has to be a troll. His gut says differently, though—for all he knows, this could be a code of some sort. “Goodnight moon”? No normal person says something like that, outside of a bedtime story. But if it’s just someone trolling, it hardly matters what’s normal, right?

Without thinking about it too hard, he prints out the page, highlighting the sections he thinks could be important from the original post. When he gets to the weird answer, he hesitates. It’s nonsensical and sounds like something out of a movie. It’s not something he should actually be considering. 

_ Okay then _ , he thinks, and goes to put the paper down. Instead, almost without his permission, he uncaps his pen and highlights the whole thing. Only then do his muscles obey him, and he sets the paper on his desk.

“What the fuck,” he says, staring at it.  _ Goodnight moon.  _ Rubbing a hand over his hair, he shakes himself out, and tries to move on.

The next few hits are excerpts from books about mythical creatures, thankfully in English even if the prose is Shakespeare levels of incomprehensible. He does understand enough of it to keep reading, and it gets easier as he goes on. A lot of what’s in the books sounds like it comes from a fantasy novel—shapeshifting and new senses and “new qualities of the physical and emotional self”. 

There’s a Twilight fanfic that includes a note from the author—”The way the werewolves were depicted in the book was bullshit so I’m going to fix it. Packs don’t work that way AT ALL! Trust me, I know what I’m talking about here!!!”

A subreddit about a fantasy game boasts having a bestiary that “could help in real life too!” and advises “special members” to join a different, password-protected subreddit called r/fangsandclaws.

Wikipedia has a lengthy and undersourced page about werewolf lore and he reads  _ all  _ of it, following all of the links, slumping over in his chair painfully and blinking only often enough that his eyes don’t burn.

He binges for hours, reading everything else he can find, printing out promising pages and adding them to his stack, which grows tall and increasingly precarious as time passes. Dad brings up dinner at some point, which Stiles barely pokes at, eating maybe three bites over the course of an hour. Eventually his dad goes to bed, but Stiles stays up, going so deep into the search results, all that’s left is some weird RPGs, a religious site dedicated to the moon, really dedicated cosplays, an article about werewolves on the moon, and a website called SupernaturalConnection. SupernaturalConnection is apparently a dating site for people “committed to a life that is  _ super  _ natural ;).”

When the sun comes up, he takes his medicine, fills the XL thermos with an entire pot of coffee, and hurries out to the mythology section of Beacon Hills’ library.

He gets home a few hours later, and after a long nap, spends a little while messing around on his phone and texting with his friends. Lydia’s party is tonight, and she wants to make sure what he wears is acceptable. Honestly, his mind is a million miles away. She could be telling him to wear a bedsheet for all he’s paying attention. Eventually, sighing, he turns back to his research, and starts compiling what he’s found into a spreadsheet.

He passes out for about five hours that night, and in the morning, stops by the station to let his dad know he’s alive and not delirious (well, mostly not). He ends up talking with some of his coworkers, and finds it’s kinda difficult to talk like a normal person after such a long research binge.

By the time Scott barges in the next afternoon, when the sun is low in the sky and the spreadsheet almost done, Stiles is reasonably sure that a) werewolves are totally, actually, factually real, and b) Scott is totally one of them.

“Scotty!” Stiles says too loudly, jumping to his feet and blinking blearly at his friend. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Scott eyes him contemplatively. “How much Adderall have you had today?”

Definitely more than recommended, but the whole being loud and jittery thing has way more to do with the lack of sleep and coffee he’s been chugging. That would take too long to explain, though, so he goes with, “A lot. Doesn’t matter. Just listen—”

“Oh, is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?” He sounds hopeful even though they both know Stiles can’t really say anything about it.

“No,” he says anyway. “People are still being questioned, even Derek Hale.”

“Like, your old friend Derek Hale?”

_ Yup _ , Stiles thinks.  _ My old friend Derek Hale. My very attractive old friend. Aaaand there you go Stiles, running your mouth about an open investigation. Fuck. _

“Yeah. He was the one who found your inhaler, by the way. Oh shit, hold on.” He digs it out of his work uniform, laying in a heap on the floor, and tosses it over. Scott catches it midair and slips it into his pocket with much more grace than he’s usually capable of, which is another tick in the  _ Holy Shit Scott’s A Werewolf!!! _ column. “Okay, but look, that’s not it. Remember the joke from the other day? Not a joke anymore. The wolf—the bite in the woods. I started doing all this reading. Do you even know why a wolf howls?”

‘Cause Stiles does, now. And it means some potentially seriously bad shit.

“Should I?”

“It's a signal, okay? When a wolf's alone, it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack.” He starts pacing, hands moving as he speaks. “So if you heard a wolf howling, that means other wolves could have been nearby. Maybe even a whole pack of 'em.”

“A pack of wolves? Stiles, you said there’s only one!”

Stiles pauses and scrubs a hand over his face, pressing in. “Yeah, there’s one wolf, but I’m not talking about, like,  _ real  _ wolves, dude. I’m talking about werewolves.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Stiles doesn’t bother to think about how he sounds. All he knows is that he’s right. All the pieces fit. No matter how illogical it seems, it’s obvious. Scott has to believe him.

But Scott scowls, stepping away from Stiles. “Are you seriously wasting my time with this again? You know I'm picking up Allison in an hour.”

“I’m not—Look, okay, you told me you can hear things way better than before, smell things. And from what Danny and Jackson—and you!—have told me about lacrosse practice, you were moving totally differently than normal. I’m willing to bet your vision is better, too. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re breathing totally fine, even just after running up the stairs. Do you even need your inhaler anymore?”

His tirade washes right over Scott, who bursts out, “Okay! Okay! Calm down. Dude, I can't think about this now. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Stiles freezes, suddenly recalling something Ms. Hopper, the front desk lady at the station, had said the day before. “ _ Tomorrow _ ?! What? No! The full moon's tonight. Don't you get it?”

Something about the way he says it makes Scott’s back straighten out, his scowl growing a little more pronounced and anger lacing his words. “What are you trying to do here, man? I just made first line. I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me, and everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?”

Stiles drops his hands to his sides. “I'm just trying to help. You're cursed, Scott. It's not just that the moon will cause you to physically change, either. It also just so happens to be when your bloodlust will be at its peak.”

“Bloodlust?” Scott repeats, sounding a little faint.

“Yeah, your urge to kill.” He’s read all about it, and he’s really not looking forward to seeing it in person.

And just like that, the anger is back. “I'm already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles.”

Huffing, he ignores that and turns to his stack of papers. It takes a second to find the right one, but when he does, he says, quoting it, “You gotta hear this. ‘The change can be caused by anger or anything that raises your pulse.’ All right? I’m gonna go ahead and assume that Allison totally does that to you—you know, raises your pulse. You can’t go to the party. You have to cancel this date. I'm gonna call her right now.”

Stiles doesn’t have her number, but Jackson probably does—Lydia said something about him befriending a pretty new girl, didn’t she?—so he pulls out his phone to ask for it. It’s for the greater good, he tells himself, knowing that being around Scott tonight is probably a horrible idea for anyone. Horrible and unsafe until Scott can learn to control himself.

“What are you doing?” Scott growls out, voice much deeper than Stiles has ever heard it.

He stands his ground, starting to type out a text to Jackson. “I'm canceling your date.”

Scott shouts, “No! Give it to me!” and then everything goes wonky. Wonky in the sense that Scott’s teeth get longer and sharper than a normal human being’s should be. Scott pushes Stiles against the wall so hard he knocks the wind out of him, and Stiles, being that he’s an idiot and a trained law enforcement officer, instinctively reaches for his holster. A part of him realizes this is his friend, this is a  _ kid _ , and that he’s under the influence of his first full moon. A more insistent part of him recognizes that Scott’s sharp, inhuman teeth are dangerously close to Stiles’s throat, backed by an intimidating growl and what look like  _ claws  _ on Scott’s hands.

Scott backs away, chest heaving with his heavy breath. He pushes Stiles’ chair and it goes careening all the way across the room, crashing into the wall. The noise it makes seems to shake Scott out of it, because then he turns and says, “I'm sorry. I—I gotta go get ready for that party. I'm sorry.”

Scott hightails it out of there, leaving Stiles up against the wall, hand still reaching for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the article about wolves on the moon is real, if you can believe it](https://www.forbes.com/sites/robinandrews/2018/11/08/here-is-what-happens-to-werewolves-on-the-moon-according-to-geophysics/#69419c803267) and apparently found on page 30 of google search results
> 
> if you liked it, please leave a comment!! I'm always interested in hearing your thoughts and theories  
thank you! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow I really did not mean to leave this hanging that long !! I kind of took a break from it, and then I fell back into another fandom, and now I just have like. a million writing commitments with deadlines in December and January and ugh. Bad combo. Anyway, some of the dialogue in this chapter came straight from the show--I'm not making any claim to those lines, just borrowing them.
> 
> **Warning for some references to the underage/non-con nature of Derek and Kate's relationship**
> 
> Thanks as always to whateverrrwhatever for betaing!!! <333

Let it be known: Stiles does not want to be here.

Let it also be known that Lydia is more than aware of this, and doesn’t care.

“Good, you’re here,” she says as the door swings open. Despite all the times she’s told him that she takes hosting events seriously—and Stiles has seen her in action, too busy answering the door and refilling glasses to enjoy her own party even a little bit—her smile is real. When he goes for a hug, she allows it, going so far as to pat his back a few times before she pulls away. “Come on, Jackson has been waiting to see you all day.”

“He said that?” Stiles asks, honestly a little shocked. Jackson Whittemore doesn’t  _ do  _ feelings, or like, expressing himself through anything other than mocking condescension.

Lydia gives him a look, one of her patented ‘are you stupid?’ ones. “Of course not.” With that, she turns, her dress flowing, and starts to lead him further into the house. He follows closely behind, unwilling to lose her in the crowd. 

There are people everywhere, most of them looking so young, Stiles has to avert his eyes. Plausible deniability, okay? He was a kid not so long ago, and favors a harm reduction approach as a rule. Everyone here knows who he is, where he works—his presence alone helps that harm reduction. 

So, yeah.  _ Plausible deniability _ .

The crowd gets thicker the farther in they go, seeming to circle around, and if he didn’t know there must be a lacrosse player in the middle—more than likely Jackson and Danny themselves, being the attractive and bitchy seniors that they are—he’d be worried about a fight. When people see Lydia and Stiles, they part like the red sea, allowing them easy access into the fold.

Danny stands when he sees them, giving Lydia a smile and bear-hugging Stiles. “Dude!”

Laughing, Stiles hugs back, rocking them side to side. It’s been too damn long since he last saw this guy. “Bro!”

They pull apart, Danny poking at his chest. “Man, the girls have been asking about you! What happened to standing date at Jungle every Friday, huh?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault my dad keeps giving me the Friday night shifts! This is my first one off in months.” It’s seriously annoying, but when he brought it up, Dad had teased him about wanting special treatment. At least he usually gets the rest of the weekend off. “And hey, look! I’m spending it with you guys right now.”

“And how lucky we are,” Jackson says, as dry as the Sahara. He nudges Danny out of the way, giving Stiles an inquisitive look. “You look like shit.”

“Wow, thank you,” Stiles squawks, slapping a hand over his heart. “Thank you so much, I definitely needed to hear that—”

“I think he means the glaringly obvious circles under your eyes,” Lydia interrupts.

“Or the fact that you’re super pale,” Danny adds. “You still go outside, right?”

_ How sweet are my friends, _ Stiles thinks with a barely-suppressed eye roll. “You know, I’ve weirdly missed you guys bullying me. What is this? Stockholm Syndrome?”

“You wish,” Jackson shoots back. 

“I  _ wish _ ? What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s better not to question it, dude,” Danny says, flopping back down onto the couch they’d been sitting on. “Come here, I wanna tell you about what fucking Greenberg did today in Harris’ class.”

As entertaining as that sounds, Stiles shakes his head. “Wait a sec, I wanna get a drink first.”

When he turns around, Lydia’s standing there, holding out a plastic bottle of water. “No punch.”

“No punch,” Stiles repeats with a sigh, taking the stupid bottle. “I’m seriously regretting my life choices right now.”

“Stop whining, it’s not attractive.”

“Oho, are you admitting you think I’m hot, Whittemore?”

Seeing the glare Jackson gives him is totally worth not being allowed to get drunk.

For a while, he sits with Jackson and Danny and listens to their stories of Beacon Hills High School, as well as the teachers he left behind two years prior. Apparently Finstock has finally broadened his horizons, and has vowed he’ll be shouting out Shakespearean speeches to the players before games. 

Lydia comes by every once in a while, adding in little comments and corrections that have Stiles nearly crying with laughter.

It’s nice to be around his friends again, to just relax into Lydia’s expensive couch and steal sips of Jackson’s punch, which, by the way, tastes totally normal. Or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself. They work wonders at calming him down, and even though his thoughts are still whirling around the fact that  _ werewolves are totally real _ , he’s able to push it down and just enjoy himself.

But then Scott comes in, and all those thoughts come right back to the forefront.

Stiles gets to his feet, wondering how he can convince his friends and this Allison person to let him take Scott home. ‘Cause like, it’s a full moon and during their argument earlier that day Scott was angrier than Stiles has seen him in years and he has a creeping suspicion that Scott is dangerous and crazy strong, meaning  _ no one is safe _ . It’s Stiles’ job to protect people, and if Scott turns into a werewolf and kills people, it will be really bad—supremely, awfully bad. Not only will Stiles have failed Scott and his dad  _ and  _ all the people of Beacon Hills, this part will be an actual, literal nightmare scenario, and Stiles isn’t sure  _ anyone  _ will make it out alive.

“You okay?” Danny asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just—”

“Stiles!” Scott shouts from across the room. He’s blinking hard, swaying a little.  _ Fuuuuuuck,  _ Stiles thinks, and hurries over.

“Scott, shit, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, sounding annoyed. “Anyway, I wanted you to meet Allison. Stiles, this is Allison Argent. Allison, this is Stiles Stilinski, he’s a good friend of mine.”

Stiles tries to be calm even though inside, he’s waiting for the pin to drop. The fang to drop? Does Scott actually have fangs or was he totally imagining that earlier? Whatever. He shakes Allison’s hand, delighting in how bright her smile is.

“It’s great to meet you,” she says earnestly.

He starts to say, “Yeah, you too,” but Scott interrupts him with a groan.

“Scott?” Allison asks, reaching out a hand and laying it gently on his shoulder. Scott flinches like it burns, and she retracts, looking confused and hurt. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—I’ll be right back,” he chokes out, stumbling towards the front doors.

Unwilling to leave his friend alone through something that’s probably hella painful—whatever’s happening certainly doesn’t look like an easy ride—Stiles tries to follow after him, only for Lydia to step into the way.

Quickly, he says, “Lyds, look, I know you don’t want me to leave so early but it’s kind of important that I—”

“McCall is fine,” she interrupts, heaving a sigh. “Probably just drank too much or something. He can take care of himself. Now, he gets to see you all the time, and I do not, so you’re not leaving until—”

“Uh, guys?” Allison cuts in. “I’m gonna go outside, see how Scott’s doing, okay? Can you move out of the way?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Stiles nearly trips over his own feet moving, attempting to let her through and slip around Lydia on Allison’s tail. She passes by just as Lydia catches on to his plan, giving him a glare that could melt steel.

“ _ No _ . I haven’t seen nearly enough of you tonight.”

“Fine! Fine, okay? I’ll stay, but if Scott really is sick and you’re making me stay and he dies—”

“He won’t die.”

“He could!”

Through the window, Stiles watches Allison walk around, searching for Scott and looking a little lost. And then he sees something he never expected—Derek Hale, leather jacket and all, approach, saying something. Offering her a ride, he thinks, as Derek gestures to the cars parked on the street behind him. Derek used to do stuff like that all the time, especially for his teammates’ girlfriends. No matter how douchey Derek acted, everyone knew he was a good guy, so those girls usually accepted, happy for the ride and for Derek’s company..

It’s nice, he thinks as they walk away together and out of sight. Derek hasn’t changed completely, despite how different he’d seemed a few days ago.

“Wait,” he breathes out, and he swears he can hear something in his brain whirring and clicking into place. “Did she say  _ Argent _ ?!”

* * *

It takes forever to escape, but he manages it eventually, in exchange for promising to come to a lacrosse game or two. Lydia threatens to make him come along with her to the spa, but he has no time to worry about whether or not she’ll follow through.

He probably breaks a few traffic laws getting to Scott’s house, hoping against hope that’s where his friend went, but it’s possible that Scott—and others, for all he knows!—could be getting hurt at this very moment. Honestly, Stiles isn’t, like, 100% sure on werewolves being real, but there’s a good chance, and he’s not willing to risk it, okay? When he finally does get there, he parks haphazardly in the driveway, barely remembering to lock the Jeep on his way to the front door.

Stiles’s hands shake like crazy when he tries to get the key in the lock, anxiety over what he might find in the house buzzing under his skin. But he does get inside eventually, and upon finding nothing downstairs, hurries up to Scott’s empty room and then to the bathroom. He tries to open the door, but it’s locked. He can hear the shower running and he knocks as loud as he dares, hoping Scott can hear him. Though really, if Scott’s a werewolf with super hearing, he probably heard Stiles pull up in the driveway, right?

“Scott, it's me. Let me in, Scott. I can help.” Probably? He can probably help. Maybe. But hey, two people focusing on a problem usually goes better than just one, right? And Stiles was researching all night, so he probably knows enough to help at least a little bit. Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone else.

There’s a growl in Scott’s voice when he replies, “No! Don’t come in! Listen, you gotta find Allison.”

He tries not to sigh. Scott’s potentially turning into a werewolf on the other side of that door and he’s still worried about his date? Seriously?  _ Teenagers _ . “She's fine, all right? I saw her get a ride from the party. She's—she's totally fine, all right?”

“No, I think I know who it is.”

“Just let me in, Scotty, okay? I’ll help you with this.” Stiles rests his forehead on the door, mentally rewinding Scott’s words. “Wait, what? What do you mean you know who it is?”

“It's Derek,” Scott groans out. “Derek Hale is the werewolf. He's the one that bit me. He's the one that killed the girl in the woods.”

Scott’s wrong. Derek isn’t a werewolf—Stiles would know, wouldn’t he? He’d be able to tell if his old friend was totally different, not human, a freaking werewolf,  _ wouldn’t he _ ?—and Derek would never,  _ ever  _ hurt his sister, much less kill her. Plus, he wasn’t even in town when it happened! But then the possibility that Scott has some freaky werewolf way of knowing occurs to him, and he finds himself blurting out, “Scott—Derek's the one who drove Allison home from the party.”

On the other side of the door, Stiles can hear Scott panting. “What?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal, he used to do that all the time, but then I remembered her name is Allison  _ Argent  _ and—”

Suddenly the door to the bathroom rips open, and there’s Scott, soaking wet, shirtless, and much more importantly, sporting golden eyes and fangs. They’re inhuman, like something out of one of a video game, or a movie, and look so out of place on Scott’s face that Stiles almost doesn’t recognize him. 

He rushes past Stiles, and before he can stop him, the window is open and Scott is gone.

“Aw hell,” Stiles whines to himself, rushing downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, he finds himself at the Argent’s house. Or rather, in front of it, standing up as straight as he can and yet still not measuring up to Victoria Argent in her heels. Victoria Argent, by the way, is staring at him like she thinks he’s an annoying child or a gnat or dinner, perhaps.

“Deputy Stilinski,” she says, and she even sounds like a judge, jury, and executioner. Something about her makes him nervous. Like really seriously nervous, holy god. And how does she even know who he is? He’s never met her before—he would remember. There’s no doubt in his mind about that. “This is a surprise. Is something wrong?”

“No! No, I mean, uh, I’m here for Allison? I just saw her earlier at the party and I was—”

Victoria turns, though he notices she doesn’t quite go all the way around, her back to a wall rather than towards him. “Allison! It’s for you!” She shouts. To Stiles, she says, “She’ll be just a moment.”

There’s no offer to come inside. Not that Stiles would accept it, anyway. 

_ Argents _ , he thinks with a shudder.

They stand in awkward, intimidating silence for a few moments before Allison comes into view, up on the second floor. When she sees Stiles, she hurries downstairs, obviously concerned. “Stiles? Is Scott okay?”

“Scott?” Victoria asks, catching Allison by the arm before she can get too close, like Stiles has cooties or something. “Who’s Scott? And how do you know Deputy Stilinski?”

“Scott’s a friend from school, Mom. Stiles is friends with him, I met him tonight. Okay?”

Stiles looks away awkwardly as they share an intense look. Or really, as Victoria glares at Allison with some serious  _ I Am Mom, Hear Me Roar  _ vibes and Allison stands her ground. It’s only when Victoria clears her throat that he looks up.

She doesn’t walk away, though, just stays right there while Allison again asks, “Is Scott okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just a little stomach bug,” he bullshits, offering the women a sheepish smile. “He wanted me to come say he was sorry he ran away like that, make sure you got home okay, you know?”

Allison smiles at him, and oh yeah, she’s crushing hard on Scotty. If Stiles had ever done that to like, Lydia or Heather? They’d be pissed. Even if it was on a date, which it never will be with either of them, but that’s beside the point. “Will you let him know I did? I got a ride from his friend Dere—”

Stiles coughs loudly, then shakes his head like he’s dispelling his sudden onset bronchitis. “Sorry about that. But yeah, I’ll let him know. Glad you’re okay, though! Okay great bye!”

He tries to retreat then, but Victoria calls out, “Wait a moment, please, Deputy,” so he stops in his tracks. Fidgeting, he watches as Victoria dismisses Allison upstairs, and then comes out onto the porch. The door closes heavily behind her.

“Is something wrong? I’m not on duty tonight, but I can get one of my coworkers here if—”

“Allison was about to say Derek Hale, wasn’t she.” It’s not a question. Also, she sounds pissed, like seriously furious enough to kill him where he stands angry.

“Um.” He pastes on a polite smile, brain blanking on any kind of response.

“You were friends with the Hales as a child, weren’t you? I seem to recall hearing about a little boy who was always tagging along like a lost puppy.”

“If you’re worried he did something to her, I really don’t think—”

“Oh, I’m not worried. He wouldn’t touch her.”

Something about the way she says it makes him tense. She sounds real sure about that. “Oh?”

She gives him a smile that would look innocent on anyone else. “Oh, that’s right, you were so young when it happened. You might not remember the history he has with our family. Next time you see him, will you let him know Chris and I think he should leave Allison alone? He’s really much too old to be alone with her.”

She’s totally threatening him, isn’t she? Though honestly, Stiles isn’t sure if that ‘him’ is Derek or himself. Either way, he’s not about to lay down and take it.

“Actually, I do sorta remember. Kate was, what, 25? Older than he is now, and gosh, he was sixteen back then, right? Or was it fifteen?” He shrugs faux-flippantly. “Not like it matters, right? I’m pretty sure he was just doing something nice, making sure she got home safe and sound and away from all those drunk boys. Anyway, if there’s nothing else, I’m gonna go. It was real nice talking to you, really!” His tone implies very much the opposite.

As he was talking, her face had begun shutting down, and now? She’s downright scowling at him. “The first mistake he makes, that’s it,” she says nonsensically, voice as hard and cold as a robot’s. “Make sure you tell him that. Now, good- _ bye _ , Deputy.”

She opens the front door and steps inside, slamming it so loud he jumps. The sound of the locks turning sends him scrambling down off the porch.

Trudging back to the Jeep, he ponders over the last threat she made. That’s it? What the hell does she mean by that? She wouldn’t seriously threaten someone with death  _ via a Sheriff’s Deputy _ , would she? 

He’s aware that the Argents aren’t…okay, look, he knows how crazy and evil they can be. It’s been years, and he still can’t believe what Kate did, posing as a substitute and—well. He doesn’t know the whole story, just that he caught Derek with her once, and was sworn to secrecy. He’d fought with himself for days, wondering if he should tell someone anyway. At 13, he knew it wasn’t okay, but Derek was so smart and cool and he was older than Stiles, so he must’ve known too, right? And if he thought it was okay, then maybe it was.

The more he thought about it, though, the more convinced he became he  _ had  _ to tell someone. But before he could, the fire happened. He’d been too much of a wreck after to say anything, and then it was too late, Laura and Derek long gone, Kate Argent nothing more than a blip on the town’s radar.

He’s researched, though. He knows that Kate Argent was a fully grown adult when she was with Derek, who was only sixteen. He knows she got her diploma but never went to school beyond high school, and he knows—though this is more of a gut feeling than anything with actual proof—that whatever documents she had that got her that substitute teacher position were bullshit.

His phone rings before he can think any further, which is probably a good thing because he’s totally white-knuckling his steering wheel.

It’s Scott. He curses and swipes to answer, pulling over quickly and thanking god there’s barely anyone on this road right now. “Scott? Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m by the gas station,” he says, sounding subdued. “Can you come and get me? Please?”

“Yeah, of course buddy. I’ll be right there.” He gets back on the road after putting Scott on speaker, and starts making his way over there. “Just keep talking, alright?”

“Alright,” Scott says.

They hardly talk, but just the sound of Scott breathing and sounding not dead is good enough for Stiles. When he gets in the Jeep, he’s shivering, still shirtless and damp from his shower. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just twists around and digs out a blanket from the backseat so Scott can warm up a little bit.

“Derek said…he said we’re brothers now.” Scott shakes his head, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. “He sounded  _ crazy _ , Stiles. Said ‘the bite’ is a gift and that I  _ need him _ and I should be happy he did this to me!”

“So he is a werewolf? He’s the one that bit you?”

“Yes!” Scott says way too loudly. “And dude, there are hunters! They had guns and they were totally going to kill me but Derek got us away in time.”

“Wait, hunters? What the hell?” The land around Beacon Hills is open to hunters, but the Preserve isn’t. Not to mention, these ones are hunting  _ humans _ ! What the hell!

Scott’s moved on, though. “You know what actually worries me the most? Allison probably hates me now.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Stiles says, turning onto Scott’s street. There’s no point trying to get back to the hunters, not right now at least. “She didn’t seem too mad when I told her you got sick and you’re sorry and stuff.”

“She was probably just being polite.”

“Maybe,” Stiles concedes, stopping in the McCall’s driveway. “Anyway, look, we’ll get through this, okay? If I have to, I’ll chain you up on full moons and make sure you don’t go crazy and hurt people.”

“This sucks,” Scott whines before exiting the Jeep. He tosses the blanket back in, closing the door.

Stiles stays until he’s sure Scott’s back inside, then heads back home. 

Tomorrow, Derek Hale is gonna get a real talking to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, consider leaving a comment! Thanks!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr here](dottie-wan-kenobi.tumblr.com)


End file.
